


Tribute

by plasticneptune (whatfreshobsession)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatfreshobsession/pseuds/plasticneptune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living so close to the other victors has made Abigail uneasy ever since she was old enough to understand what the Hunger Games really meant. Garret Jacob Hobbs had won the games the year before Abigail was born, the other two victors she only really knows through what she has seen of them on the television; Hannibal Lecter's games had been well before she was born, and she'd only been a toddler the year Will Graham had won.</p>
<p>A Hannibal x The Hunger Games crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaping Day

On the morning of the reaping Abigail's father cooks them sausages and eggs for breakfast. Her mother has bought oranges especially for the day and juices them with a brittle smile. Abigail doesn't know what to do with her hands, she fidgets around the table, straightening the knives and forks, turning the plates so that their faded patterns are all facing the same way. As she ducks out the door her dad calls after her not to be too long - the sausages will be done soon.

It's early still and the air is cold enough that her breath puffs out in clouds in front of her. She takes a basket from beside the back step and walks quickly to keep warm. First she ducks around the garden beds, searching among the leaves for any strawberries that might have ripened overnight; she had found the plants growing wild out in the plantation a few years ago, and has managed to build up a respectable crop. Five shiny red berries are nestled among the stalks. There will be more as the summer goes on, but five is good for this time of year. She tucks them into the basket and keeps walking.

As she gets further from the back door the grass becomes gradually longer, and soon she's in the small meadow that borders their yard. There are wildflowers growing, yellow and white and pink, and she snatches at the long stalks as she walks, some of the flower heads come off without stems, some she tears out by the root. It hardly seems to matter, she's just intent on moving forward and collecting more flowers.

Abigail's tugging at a stubborn clump of blossoms when the back of her neck prickles. She looks up and her mouth twitches. Standing in front of his own house at just the right angle for them to see each other is Hannibal Lecter.

They stay like that for a long moment; his stare is so calm and level that it unnerves her. 

She straightens and brushes the sap from her palm onto the leg of her trousers. There are benefits to living in her dad's house in the Victor's Village; she's never really gone hungry, and the house is better insulated than the flimsy shacks that the workers live in. But living so close to the other victors has made Abigail uneasy ever since she was old enough to understand what the Hunger Games really meant.

Garret Jacob Hobbs had won the games the year before Abigail was born, the other two victors she only really knows through what she has seen of them on the television; Hannibal Lecter's games had been well before she was born, and she'd only been a toddler the year Will Graham had won. Aside from passing them in the street the closest she had come to them was when a couple of the scruffy, feral-looking dogs that Will Graham seemed to collect would turn up in her back yard looking for food.

The blood drains from Abigail's face as she watches Hannibal Lecter, she's as pale as skimmed milk and all of a sudden her hands are shaking, and all she can do is stare back at the man in the pristine, perfectly cut suit across the street. He looks so out of place in front of the cottage that is just the same as hers, he looks like a cutout, some image projected from the Capitol rather than a flesh and blood man who had grown up in the same district as she had.

"Abigail, come in before breakfast goes cold," the sound of her father's voice pulls her gaze away from the man across the street. He's in the doorway, the spatula still in his hand and a half-smile on his face.

She glances back across the street, but all she sees is Hannibal Lecter's front door clicking shut. She takes a deep breath and heads back into the house.

At the breakfast table Abigail's parents try to keep the conversation light, her mom makes a fuss about how well the strawberries are growing, and her father promises that he'll take her out on a survey with him when the disruptions of the week are over. Her mother's smile is too bright and her eyes look panicked. Her father smiles at her warmly, but his fists are white-knuckled around his knife and fork. They take one strawberry each and make her eat the other three, and they keep trying to feed her, offering toast and more eggs, though her stomach is twisted into a knot and she's pretty sure she'll be sick if she has any more.

It's fine, she tells herself, you've never taken a tesserae, your name is only in the cup six times. But looking at her parents the thought rings hollow.

 

Abigail's mother dresses her in white and ties her hair back with a ribbon. She frets about the dress being maybe a little bit too tight, too short, that she should have bought fabric for a new one this year. Abigail pretends she can't see that her mom's hands are shaking.

It's uncomfortable to sit and wait until it's time to go to the town square, the television chatters in the background with the frantic ecstasy of the Capitol in the lead-up to the games. Abigail can't choose a seat, she drifts from room to room, she watches her parents. Her father's hands are twisting the hem of his shirt until it frays. Her mother seems set to use the yawning hours before the reaping to tidy, but she keeps getting sidetracked, turning from one chore to the next without finishing anything.

This is the one day of the year when Abigail wishes she could sleep until noon and try to forget about the games and everything to do with them.

As the time grows nearer they set out. Abigail walks between them and each holds one of her hands. She feels like a small child again. When she trips on a stone in the road her father keeps her from falling.

Abigail just feels numb as she's checked off the list and herded into the holding pen with the other seventeen-year-olds. Only Marissa waves. The other girls avoid her eyes, staring at the ground or their hands. 

Abigail pretends she doesn't notice and fixes her eyes on the stage where Ellen Komeda is making sure that everything is in place, and trying to coax Will Graham into some form of enthusiasm for the cameras. He's rigid in his seat, sweaty and pale as always and with a thousand-yard stare. Hannibal Lecter slips effortlessly between them before Ellen can kick up a fuss and leads her away with a gracious little smile.

Somebody gives a signal and the Mayor steps up to give his traditional speech. Abigail misses it though, too interested in watching what happens as Lecter returns to his seat. It isn't much; he pats Will Graham on the shoulder. Will Graham blinks once, twice, and manages a twitchy, grimacing smile and then his face falls back into it's dead-eyed stare.

When the Mayor is finished Ellen steps up to bleat out the tired old "May the odds be ever in your favour," and then, as always it's "ladies first."

Abigail is close enough to the stage that she can see Ellen's fingernails. They've been painted a deep, bloody red, which matches the frothy lace of her dress. The longer Abigail looks at her the more it seems that Ellen is wearing a dress constructed from torn flesh. Those unnerving red fingernails disappear among the hundreds of papers, search, and then emerge with this year's victim.

Her heart is racing and she can't hear whose name is called over the sound of her own pulse in her ears. Abigail tucks her hands under her arms to stop them shaking and takes a deep breath.

Someone grabs her by the shoulders; Marissa has elbowed through the other girls and flung her arms around Abigail. Abigail panics, at the thought that Marissa's name has been called. A pair of peacekeepers appear on either side of the two girls and Abigail tries to tell them to give her friend a moment to compose herself, but then they grab Abigail's arms and she realises that Marissa wasn't called after all.

It sinks in as Abigail is standing on the stage beside Ellen Komeda while she fishes around for the name of the male tribute.

Abigail is surprised to realise that her eyes are dry. She looks down and straightens her dress and then, for something to do with her hands she pulls her long ponytail forward and smooths it over her shoulder, making sure that the ribbon is straight.

She doesn't recognise Nicolas Boyle when he is called, she couldn't say if she had ever met him before in her life. He is her fellow tribute and she looks him over as such; takes in his wan face and the fear that is betrayed by his eyes and his trembling hands. I'm going to have to kill him, she thinks, and the thought sinks through her like a stone. She feels hollow and light.

The two tributes of District Seven shake hands for the cameras and are ushered away into the justice building to say their last goodbyes.

As they pass through the doors Hannibal Lecter watches after Abigail Hobbs and smiles.

 

The inside of the justice building smells musty, though someone has recently tried to air it judging by the tiny bits of saw dust scattered under the window. The room is smaller than Abigail might have guessed it would be. She paces from one end to the other and then sits on the dusty sofa.

After a moment she realises that she's fidgeting and sits on her hands to keep them still.

When her parents come into the room Abigail jumps to her feet. As soon as her dad has closed the door she rushes over for a hug. She buries her face in his shoulder and hears him take a jagged breath; they stay like that for a few moments. "Don't worry Dad, I can do it," she hears herself say.

He pushes her away gently until he's holding her at arms length, "Abigail-"

She backs away, looks from him to her mom. Her mom is starting to cry so Abigail turns away, "Dad, I think I can do it." Her mom makes an odd, choked noise and Abigail grimaces, suddenly blinking back tears. "Don't be upset, I-"

Abigail manages to scream as her dad's arm wraps around her throat. She gags at the pressure.

"I love you Abigail," he whispers, "I'm not gonna let them, I won't let them hurt you," she feels metal against her throat and from the corner of her eye she can see her mom on her hands and knees, bleeding out, her throat slit, "they won't take you away from me. I love you Abigail, this won't hurt," he's breathing is uneven and the knife in his hand jerks, nicking her skin as his breaths hitch, "this will only take a second."

As the knife slashes across her neck, Abigail screams again, the door bursts open and a peacekeeper gun's muzzle flash blinds her. Abigail falls, she can't feel her dad at her back any more, the gun flashes again and again. The world narrows down to the hot, slick pulse of too much blood and suddenly above her she can see Will Graham's face, splattered with blood, wan and shaking.

He fumbles at her throat for an eternity until Hannibal Lecter slides into view and his hands circle her neck, holding her together. His face is the last thing she sees as she blacks out.


	2. Transit

Abigail's head feels heavy and like it has been stuffed with cotton wool, she feels far too hot and parched with thirst. Am I sick? she thinks, I must be - feels like the room is swaying, her eyes are too heavy to open and she slips back into unconsciousness.

The second time Abigail wakes she blinks up at an unfamiliar chrome and white ceiling and feels a knot of panic in her chest, "Mom?" she croaks. There's a rustle from beside the bed and she looks across to see Hannibal Lecter in his shirtsleeves, hair askew and looking very much like he has just been sleeping in a chair next to her bed, "M-om," her voice cracks, "what?" she looks to the other side and Will Graham is slumped in a chair, his chin on his chest.

"Abigail," says Hannibal Lecter, "it's good that you are awake. How do you feel?"

"Thirsty," she replies, and as she looks at him the pieces fall together in her mind, "my mom is dead, isn't she?"

"Unfortunately yes," says Hannibal, he's standing and taking something from her bedside table, he holds a straw up to her lips, "apple juice," he tells her, "it will make you feel a little better."

She drinks, her mind racing, "My dad?"

"Dead also," Hannibal says gently.

"He killed him," she says, glancing across at Will.

"Yes, but your father would have killed you if Will hadn't stepped in."

Abigail's hands feel rubbery and useless but she reaches up to touch her throat, her fingers brush against soft bandages before Hannibal carefully pulls her hands away.

"How am I alive?" she whispers.

Hannibal Lecter smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners, "We managed to stop you from bleeding too much, and there are medical staff on the trains. It isn't unheard of for tributes to suffer serious injuries on route to the Capitol, though they usually tend toward self-slaughter rather than mercy killings."

"Huh," is all she can manage to say.

"I should let you rest," says Hannibal, reaching for an iv drip that is attached to her right arm, "I will adjust this to help with the dehydration, and you should try and sleep for a few more hours."

He walks around the bed and gently wakes Will Graham, who smiles crookedly when he sees that Abigail is awake, then busies himself with wiping his glasses on his shirttail as he hurries from the room with his shoulders hunched and his mouth set in a grimace.

"Sleep now," Hannibal says as he follows Will out and slides the door closed behind them.

"Yeah right," Abigail mutters. Her brain is flooded with questions and memories and a deep, rising panic. She couldn't possibly sleep - especially when the slight rocking of the train as it travels is making her feel dizzy.

Minutes later Abigail's eyes close and she slips into a dreamless sleep.

 

Abigail wakes clear headed and feeling, if not fearless then definitely numbed. The carriage is cleared of the medical apparatus that she remembers having surrounded her in the night and there is not even a mark on the back of her hand to show where the drip had been. She takes this as a sign that she is allowed to explore the rest of the train.

She's been dressed in a thin cotton night dress and she wonders who changed her clothes but then puts the thought out of her mind. Soon enough she will be shown on every screen in Panem and worrying about who might have seen her while she was hurt doesn't seem like the sort of thing a victor would do. She suppresses the shudder that the thought gives her and tells herself not to be disappointed when she looks in the wardrobe and finds that her reaping dress isn't there. Of course she knows that the white fabric would have been ruined by the - by her blood, but her mother had made it for her and her mother was - she bites her lips and focuses on getting dressed, choosing some soft trousers and boots the colour of doeskin and a dark blue top.

She tries to comb through her hair with her fingers but her knuckles graze the bandage on her throat and she stops. She leaves the room without looking back, still biting her lip.

The dining car is opulent in a way that is only hinted at being possible on the Capitol broadcasts. Abigail stops in the door to steady herself as she takes in the crystal chandelier and the laden side table; she had never starved as a child but her parents had been frugal, careful, and seeing the food laid out: far too much for a family of ten, let alone the party of two tributes, two mentors and their bony escort, Abigail can hear her mother tutting and for a moment she wants to run back to the safety of her bed and act like the scared little child that she knows everyone is expecting her to be. 

Instead she wipes her hands on her trousers and crosses to the table where Hannibal Lecter is sitting with a delicate glass mug of coffee apparently absorbed in reading a thin book. He glances up as she reaches the table, gives her one of his not-quite smiles and stands to pull her seat out for her. Abigail mumbles her thanks and lets him pour her a cup of coffee as well.

"You should eat," he tells her, "you don't want to miss any meals now, you want to keep your strength."

Abigail nods, her voice is stuck in her throat and she watches him signal to an attendant to fill a plate for her. His eyes shine as he watches her and she wrings her hands under the table.

"Are you afraid?" as he speaks she catches a glimpse of his teeth, they are too sharp and she wonders if they have been altered by the Capitol. 

"What do you mean?" she says and then regrets it.

"Of the games, of the Capitol? Are you afraid of being alone now that your parents are gone?"

"No," she says, "there's not ... no, I'm not afraid. "

"Tell me," he presses, "I am here only to help you, I promise I will do my best to ensure your survival."

"I'm not afraid," she says again, it was the word survival that did it; most people would probably say victory, which she had learned a long time ago was a falsehood, "either I die, or I kill twenty-three other children. Either the Capitol helps me or they ignore me. My father died and I survived."

"You won't kill all twenty-three of them yourself."

"But they'll be dead."

"Will feels terribly about killing your father," he looks as though he might say more but instead he turns back to his breakfast. 

"Why would he? Nothing he hasn't done before," suddenly Abigail's head is flooded with memories of her dad, the days when he'd take her out on the plantation and teach her to track the deer he'd cull, the days full of the dappled light under the trees and kissing her mother goodbye in the morning. Abigail dashes a tear from her cheek and glares at the mug of coffee she's still gripping in one hand.

"Will feels terribly about killing."

"You don't."

"No."

"Were you afraid when you were tribute?"

"No."

His expression is the same little mockery of a smile but it seems brittle, like a facade that he's taken a step back from, "You volunteered," she must have been very small when she had seen the footage, just a snippet of the 'best of' moments that they play when things are too quiet during the games, a sandy-haired and gaunt teenaged Hannibal Lecter raising his hand in the middle of the holding pen, the way that the other boys had left a space around him, the way they had stared as he walked calmly up to the stage, "It was a kid, did you know him?"

"No," he tells her, and it seems like he's going to leave it there but then, "In the foundling house it was always the older boys preying on the younger. I didn't know the boy but it seemed like much the same thing. There was no one to miss me and I had an advantage."

"What?"

"I knew I could kill them all. That's all it takes, really," he turns toward the door as it slides open and smiles, "Will, do sit with us, how are you today?"

"As well as I could be in the circumstances," there's a sheen of sweat on his face already and he he almost looks green, "'All it takes', what were you talking about?"

"Only the best ways to win over sponsors," Hannibal says smoothly and when Will nods wearily and turns away to fetch his own breakfast Hannibal nods to Abigail.

Will's hands shake as he puts his plate down and it rattles on the table top. The dressing at her throat itches and Abigail carefully peels it away. Will glances at her and then away but it's as though his eyes are drawn back to the scar on her neck. He doubles back to the buffet to splash white spirits into his coffee, ignoring Hannibal's disapproving tut.

The two of them exchange glances and Abigail picks at her food and wonders where Nick is, whether they will get to know each other at all, or if they will team up at all, even if only for the early days of the games.

Suddenly Abigail finds herself sitting in the middle of a silent argument, she doesn't know where to look or what to do with her hands until finally Hannibal smiles to himself and sips his coffee and Will takes off his glasses to polish them on his shirt.

"I guess I should watch the reapings," she says, needing a way out, "I'll need to know who I'm up against."

"That's only half the job," for the first time Will Graham looks her in the eye, briefly, and then his eyes dart to her throat and then slide away from her, "The Gamemaker, you're playing against him too. I'll find the information you need."

Abigail nods and leaves the dining car as Will Graham crumples in his seat, breakfast forgotten. Hannibal Lecter smiles.

 

Ellen Komeda clacks up and down the car in her towering high heels and tuts and fusses as Abigail tries to focus on the footage of the other reapings. Abigail has built herself a nest of blankets and cushions and has appropriated a jug of hot chocolate from the dining car. 

"That one won't be any trouble," Ellen scoffs as the district three offering shivers his way onto the platform, "you're in luck this year; most of them are younger than you."

Abigail shrugs and burrows deeper into her blankets, trying to ignore the clatter and chatter of Ellen's running commentary. As she watches the reapings play out, Abigail realises that Ellen is right, aside from the career districts, seven, and ten, none of the tributes look to be over fourteen years old, and the boy from three looks like he can’t be more than a few days past his twelfth birthday.

Ellen doesn't seem to notice Abigail shrinking further into her blankets as she keeps talking. Abigail's hands, white-knuckled and fingernails gouging her palms, are hidden from sight and she's biting her lip hard enough to taste blood just to keep herself from screaming at Ellen to go away and leave her alone.

The flood of words only stops when the carriage door slides open and Will Graham steps in, looking more together than Abigail has seen him. His face is dry and while his hands are shaking he isn't as sickly pale as he has been. There are a few papers tucked under his arm.

"Oh Ellen, good," he begins, "I was just looking for you. Hannibal wants to talk to you."

"Abigail and I were just interrogating the footage of the other tributes - is it very important?"

"Well I think he mentioned something about the stylists but I'm sure that it can wait, if you're busy."

Ellen immediately snaps to attention, one hand flung into the air as though to fend off any argument, "Of course, say no more - it is vital that we make a stunning impression, and there is so much-" she turns to Abigail with a sweeping gesture and her voice drops to a dramatic purr, "potential. It would be a crime for this to be anything but spectacular."

Peering from her blanket nest Abigail pictures herself, but even in her reaping-day best she can't quite match that image with the word spectacular.

Hand on heart, Ellen whirls back to face Abigail, "Darling, you'll have to forgive me, but I am needed elsewhere."

Abigail manages to keep from laughing and nods solemnly, "You've already been so much help, Mrs. Komeda."

Tears actually well in Ellen's eyes and she waves her hands to show that she is too overcome for words and sweeps out through the carriage door.

Will Graham smiles and it’s genuine, not his usual grimace but the easy, unselfconscious expression of a young man, and Abigail can’t help but smile in return.

“Hannibal didn’t ask for her, did he?”

Will moves a chair around to sit beside her and sorts his papers before answering, he’s still smiling, “Not as such,” he agrees, “But now we can look through these,” he ruffles the pages, “You’ll have an advantage in the field if you can see the Gamemaker's design."

**Author's Note:**

> Rough cuts of this fic are updated on my tumblr: favabeansandabigamarone.tumblr


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